The Meaning of Ithaca
by Progenitus
Summary: John for her was what Sherlock was for John. They were the most mathematically stable triangle, until Sherlock went off and died. But she forgave him, when he turned up to stop this wedding, for all three of them. [Pre-to-Post Fall, John/OC, sort of Johnlock.]
1. Tell Me a Riddle

Set after _A Scandal in Belgravia_ and before _Reichenbach Falls_.

Disclaimed. Poem by Cavafy. Cover art is from _Ico_, which is from the surrealist painter Giorgio de Chirico's _The Nostalgia Of The Infinite_.

* * *

**Part I**

**Tell Me a Riddle**

_As you set out for Ithaka  
__hope the voyage is a long one,  
__full of adventure, full of discovery.__  
_

* * *

The first time that he talked her, it was at the shoddy pub that he frequented across the street from his clinic.

It wasn't the first time he had seen her, no, but it wasn't as if he ran into her all that often either. Actually, he had only ever seen her in this particular pub. Come to think of it, it was a little strange, seeing how she must work nearby, and after so many months of clinic work, he had yet to see her anywhere but at The Old Bell Pub.

Now, John was a man beginning to be very desperate for some sort—any sort—of action. Sarah had ended their relationship after the New Zealand doctorial conference last year, quirking her left eyebrow and being so logical about it that he couldn't hold a grudge against her. It was all downhill from there. A month after that he managed wheedle a date with the one with the spots (Emmy, he corrected himself), who had lasted all of six dates before she decided that she neither cared for crime fighting nor crime fighting stories. The one with the nose (Rosa, with the dog) dumped him after four dates, and he didn't even bother calling Jeannette the schoolteacher again after Christmas. That led to three months, one week and six days without shagging, without snogging, without _anything_.

That made him sound like some sex-crazy teenager, didn't it? Well it certainly did in his mind, but John was getting too old to be blasé about the whole dating game, to be frank. Even a man as charming and lovable as himself faced some trouble finding game, especially since all the news photos of him standing next Sherlock made him look like a hobbit.

He certainly had to cast a wide net in hopes of finding that one sparkling woman (she probably didn't exist, she _had_ to exist) who would take him, all of him, so let his mind judge himself but he really needed to pay attention to _every_ woman _everywhere_.

There were a couple of things that a woman had to be in order for her to be tolerant of John's certain…pastimes. A ridiculously good temper, for one, and also understanding when he got called away by a short text message. She cannot tremble at the thought of murderers and death, and always attentive as to which arm John had bruised the night before in a mad chase across London. Ideally she should have a certain fascination with crimes, and also a fondness of cuddling on the couch in front of crap telly, but John knew when to stop asking. In fact, John knew that it was impractical to expect any woman to fit even half of the criterion that he listed, which was why despite being a functioning war veteran who radiated a nice-guy-to-settle-down-with aura for miles, he was still unattached. Nothing short of the Victorian ideal of the Angel in the House could ever deal with John, because to deal with John meant dealing with Sherlock, and so far the only person who could do _that_ was John himself.

That grudging knowledge didn't stop him from trying though.

But it was not his desperation that led him to notice this particular woman. No, his attention was called because he had seen her a couple times here already, and she was always in a full suit, blazer and all, inside The Old Bell's, the pub that was known for two quid house stout and disgustingly oily burritos (although John was fond of their fried pork cracklings, and indulged himself every once in a while).

The woman didn't look like she'd eat anything but a salad, and certainly looked like she shouldn't be downing two quid anything. A year of scampering beside Sherlock had taught him a few things about _observing_, and as John patiently waited for Mike Stamford, he observed this interesting bunch.

She was with a co-worker again, judging by their similar state of being overdressed—a male one, close but not intimate from the distance between them. She was always here with a different man, but the body language was never flirty, no matter how late or how many shots they threw back. And they were here pretty late alright; once John had seen her with two other blokes at midnight, nursing some sort of drink on the rocks. That was one of those nights that were not good—not exactly nightmares or insomnia, but just general sleeplessness, not helped by the burning violin noises from downstairs. He had come here in hopes of getting a few beers as a nightcap. The Old Bell was known for serving late, sometimes bypassing the law to close down in favor of late patrons who were generous (drunk) tippers.

Back to observing, John leashed his thoughts back as he waited for his pork cracklings and frothy beer.

She had laid down her blazer over the back of the chair, neatly folded— meticulous, very much practiced. The soldier in him admired the precision. The gray blazer was crisp and freshly ironed, but there were wrinkles at the elbow and a few at the back—a long day at work, and maybe dry cleaned last week? John wasn't too sure about the timeline; he didn't have Sherlock's eyes, but he was at least on track. The material looked heavy, almost too thick for the weather, and certainly much warmer than the breezy beige blouse she had on now. So her office was well-heated. It was an expensive suit, and her shoes looked new and designer, so it wasn't likely that she only had this one suit for the seasons. She got cold very easily then, possibly bad circulation from a sedentary lifestyle.

_Boring_ lifestyle, he grinned as he thought about the late night chases and the new battlefield that he discovered, living with Sherlock.

None of her people belonged in the seedy, cheapskate pub, so she frequented this place for convenience in location then, and perhaps also the late hours. Just like him.

Well except he would never order a _martini_ in a place like this, like her friend-co-worker person. Or a martini in general. It was too James-Bond-esque, and definitely bordered on trying too hard. He would bet it's a Vesper martini too.

Bankers, or lawyers, he decided as he bit into the slightly charred burger. The grease made up for the lack of attention in cooking though, so it didn't taste half bad. It was just what the stomach needed to prepare for booze.

Mike Stamford still hadn't come, and John texted him to ask if he was on his way.

His phone chimed very quickly in response, and Mike apologized overzealously for his tardiness. Said he would treat him to a pint, and John was alright with that. Besides, he owed _everything_ to Mike, so he sat still and drummed his fingers on the table and went back to observing. If he went back to the apartment now, he would only find more holes in the wall, undoubtedly.

The other people weren't that interesting. There were a couple of sports fans who were as much a staple as the bartender himself, and a vaguely touristy couple. The woman had a pearl necklace, but their camera was a flimsy, cheap model, so it was probably a fake. The bloke had the tell-tale beer belly, and it wasn't surprising that he drank most of that pitcher of Miller Lite. The wife made him get Lite, in all likelihood. The bartender's hair was slicked back. Maybe he had a date later, or ended one before. In any case, he didn't scowl any less today, so it wasn't a very good looking bird that he landed.

Soon, John ran out of things to observe, and wished that Sherlock was here. No never mind that, scratch that, please, he started knocking on wood, please don't let Sherlock come here. He was going to have a good night catching up with an old friend, and that would not go according to plan if Sherlock was within five blocks of here.

A phone vibrated in the distance, remarkably loud. He saw the suit-woman's companion pick his Blackberry up and start reading through something.

John couldn't tell what his expression was, but the woman seemed extremely composed, not at all upset at such rude behavior. In fact, she seemed to have almost been expecting it. The man turned to say something to her. She shook her head slightly, gripped her glass tighter—ah, he was asking if she wanted to leave then—and _glanced at John_.

John could feel his mind stop and blank out for a second. During which time, the man stood up, threw down a crisp bill from his leather wallet, and burst out of the room, leaving the woman there still sipping her drink.

John blinked and thought, _Okay, a woman at a bar stays behind, unconsciously or consciously looks at a man at the bar, well that's pretty straightforward, isn't it?_

That woman just did a double take on him, discreetly but not entirely inconspicuous, not for his eyes.

John felt giddy at his own deduction, also emboldened to chat her up.

So he wiped his mouth carefully with the questionable napkins on the table, took his basket of pork cracklings and stout, and walked over.

"Mind another pint joining?" Alright, it wasn't his best pick up line, but he hadn't been on top of his game lately, so cut him some slack, would ya?

She took a look at him, sharp, carefully drawn eyes giving him a once over with a sort of alarming efficiency to it. John all of a sudden became very aware of his attire. He was in his oatmeal-colored cable knit jumper that, of course, made him look pudgier than he actually was. It was his favorite jumper, being woolly and extraordinarily warm, but even he had to admit it wasn't his best look. And he was standing, which highlighted his ah, _average_ height, unfortunately.

Just as he felt like the back of his ears started to burn, she smiled suddenly and said, "Of course not; one should never deny potential good company."

John thought that it was meant to be both a greeting and an approval. He is faintly pleased at passing her appraisal, in the way that he was inclined to care about the opinions of people who absolutely did not matter. In fact, he was more inclined nowadays, somehow feeling like he should care for two people, for both of them.

It was a wide smile, one that thinned her lips, moved her cheeks, and curved the ends of her eyes—if it wasn't for the amusement behind it, John might have thought it genuine. In the end he decided that she just had a good face for spreading a smile—some girls were like that, nothing much in their features to recommend them until they smiled.

The woman was not particularly pretty, not in the Irene Adler way—the kind that stopped hearts and never lifted them. No, she had an extra padding along her cheeks that made her jaw look round: a small diet would have done her well. But she had that understated look that was easy on the eyes, and in her smile her eyes curled, the edges crinkling upwards just so, almost like a bold flick of the painter's wrist, caught in the passion of creation. Here was a face that made people feel at ease. She had dark hair and pale skin—from her office job undoubtedly—and when he sat down he found that he was a good two or three inches taller, which made him feel immediately better.

"The House special?" she asked flippantly once he set his pint down. Her accent wasn't from around here, but John had a hard time pinning it down to a geographical location—it sounded so _American_.

Her tone also wasn't what he expected. It was strangely disconcerting—John had anticipated a mellower person, judging from her looks, sweet and unobtrusive. But he supposed that all suits were rather sharp and flippant—it came with being on the job.

He became uncomfortably self-conscious again.

Up close, he could see the watch that adorned her wrist—classic bracelet, rose-gold plated, and if he couldn't recognize the subtle plaid pattern stamped on the sunray dial, it said 'Burberry' in friendly, capitalized letters. He couldn't tell what brand her handbag was, but he had seen enough of the same one in SoHo to know that it was only sold in places like Selfridge's—it even had one of those attached mirror thingamajigs! Her blouse was silk, he could tell, and the seams held together so firmly that it could be only a few months old at most. Her phone on the table, however, was an inconspicuous Blackberry that was quite old, both in model and by usage.

"I approve of your taste. All of my co-workers are sworn off darker stouts, no heart amongst them," she pulled a slight face that was obviously meant to be a joke.

It didn't fit: the puzzle pieces didn't fit. She wasn't supposed to _approve_ of him, and that was not his insecurity talking. Judging by everything so far, she should be at best politely acceptant of a plebeian, watered-down Guinness, and at worst wrinkle her little nose in disdain—but certainly not embrace the culture of being gauche.

But if anything, John Hamish Watson was an amicable chap who took being wrong very graciously, so he nodded a smile and replied, "I'd have to say their price makes a convincing case for it."

She bemused him more by throwing her head back and barking out a laugh. Her throat could not _possibly_ store such a formidable sound.

"A very convincing case, I agree. The guy you saw leave from over there," she made a vague gesture towards the space next to her, where her companion was sitting before, "only drinks 312."

John had given up all endeavours to figure this woman out—it was a failed exertion, and this was why Sherlock Holmes was the only consulting detective in the world. "What's wrong with 312?" he asked, not even knowing what this 312 was.

"I just can't begin to fathom why he only drinks _Goose Island_ of all things," she said with a fond exasperation, "I suppose it's the hipster in him."

John found that if nothing, he could empathize with her fond exasperation very, very well. In fact, it was his chief emotion concerning Sherlock. Beyond that of admiration, pride, and infinite gratitude, of course.

She gave a sweeping glance at the wool scarf at his neck (he had grabbed Sherlock's on the way out), and puffed out a horrified little gasp, "Say, you're not one of lot, are you?"

"One of what?" he asked both irritated and tired, fully aware of the answer.

He was waiting for it—the _confirmed_ bachelor, the _live-in_ colleague; even apart, Sherlock's shadow somehow eclipsed him. He was waiting for her dawning theory of him being a poof. Inevitable, really—even the receptionist at the clinic somehow got it into her pretty head. Either that or the horror stories that Sarah told, but he would like to think that Sarah was above all that water-cooler gossip of their attempt at a non-professional relationship.

"One of them hipsters, of course. Wool scarf. Although you don't don horn-rimmed glasses. It's alright," she continued, "At least your taste in beer is redeeming. And it's a rather nice scarf."

Ah, he might have been too sensitive about the whole bachelor thing. Those tabloids were really getting to him. Nope, he should never be in the deducing business, John decided there and then. "No, no, this is my roommate's."

"The perks of rooming with hipsters—always a handy scarf, and cigarettes if you smoke. They always play up their addiction to nicotine to play up their unconventional spirit."

"He's not exactly a hipster, as just," he searched momentarily for the right word, "eccentric," he decided finally.

Immediately she leaned forward toward him, eyes ablaze, "Eccentric? Byronic hero eccentric or Henry Jekyll eccentric? Be warned, if you say Silas Marner recluse eccentric, I shall lose interest."

Her abrupt fervor threw John off for a moment, so he cleared his throat and summarized, "Just a strange bloke—likes to solve puzzles, plays violin at odd hours, doesn't eat or sleep most days, invented his own job." Ah, there it was, the familiar glow of pride whenever he talked about Sherlock.

"I _love_ puzzles," the woman sighed, catching on the least important bit.

The wistfulness in her voice made John momentarily wonder if he had missed some calamity that had wiped out humanity's access to Sunday crosswords. Then he found his voice and introduced himself, "I don't think I've made a proper introduction, I'm John, John Watson."

Instead of offering her name in response, she gave an unattractive snort, "Proper introductions be damned! That's all we get in banking, you know, and I'm sick to the _marrow_ of it. No one ever says anything about the important stuff anyway." She sipped her drink and seemed to consider the rudeness of her previous words, and finding it too much, added: "In any case, hello John."

John wasn't sure if he was supposed to be offended. He decided against it on account of the slight purr she injected into his name, and continued with the casual, mundane introduction, "I work in the clinic across the street." A beat, "retired army doctor from Afghanistan," he added—the war hero bit always got the birds.

"Oh goodness, that sad little clinic over there?" she laughed good-naturedly, "But all clinics are rather sad, aren't they? It's the disinfectant—kills your five senses."

"And most of the germs," he quibbled.

"Germs, dirt—a handful of dust."

He blinked at her.

"Never mind, bit morbid," she took the rest of her drink in one, long gulp, "I think I'll have another pint as well. You want to make it a pitcher?"

He thought about Mike and quickly said, "Sure, why not."

As she waved to the bartender, smiling her broad smile, he asked, "So what is it that you do?"

"Me?" she seemed genuinely surprised at his inquiry, "Oh I work by Christchurch Greyfriars Garden around the corner. One of those fanged, vampiric bankers without a soul, you know."

John blinked again. "You don't seem soulless—at least, soulless people don't allude to Evelyn Waugh."

"A pitcher of Guinness, on tab, thanks" she informed the bartender before turning back to him and smiled again, but this time even broader and the light of the smile burrowing all the way into the very core of her pupil and flushing her cheeks as well. "Oh! So you did get it! Oh I haven't talked to a person who's even _heard_ of Waugh in _ages_!"

"Illiterate crowd much?" he made out before he realized how rude he sounded. He really wasn't on top of his game tonight, "God, sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's alright. They're not so much illiterate as they just don't care. You're a right Renaissance man though!"

"Oh no," John could feel the back of his ears sting again, "I read him for school. A-levels."

"That's the British high school to college ordeal, right? Brother in arms to the SATs in the States."

Ah, that's why her accent was so American—she _was_ American. "Right, I think so. Real bothersome." He poured both of them a pint from the pitcher and was once again disappointed at the watery taste. He really ought to be used to it by now.

"So you like stout?" he began conversationally.

"I guess you could say that. It's an exciting time to be drinking beer in London, isn't it," she started, voice carrying no excitement whatsoever. "Only seven breweries still functioning in London back in 2006, after decades and decades of decay, but the scenery's changing up again, bit of an explosion, if you will."

Explosions of beer were good, good—significantly better than explosions from Moriarty. "You're like a tour guide. I lived here before I shipped off to Afghanistan and I couldn't even tell you how many breweries there were."

She made a noncommittal humming sound.

Again, the distinct lack of interest or even polite inquiry about Afghanistan. John was a little frustrated—it was by far the easiest and most reliable of his pickup techniques. "So did you memorize the _London A to Z_?"

She scoffed, "I wish my head is clearly mapped out enough to just print that in there. No, no, beer is relevant to my business, so I had to educate myself with the London scene."

"Are you in the brewing business then?" Fascinating, he'd never actually met anybody who made the piss drinks that he bought! "So uh, you buy beer breweries or something, your bank?"

Another little laugh, slightly sadder but more amicable, "I'm in capital markets, not private equity."

John tried to search his lesser 'mind palace', and failed to find anything relevant to what she just said.

"Oh sorry," she smiled without an ounce of apologetic emotion, "Haven't talked to anyone outside of the team for so long. I'm in convertible offerings, mostly just valuating convertible bonds and diagram their payoffs." She paused, and then laughed at herself, "That didn't make any sense to you, does it?"

John shook his head.

"Well it's actually really simple, just take the bond components' equity and credit risks, and plug them in the model. Sometimes you convert it to see what the value would be if it were in debt or equity form. Anybody can do it, we just make it sound woozy to make us feel smarter."

"I assure you, doctors list off the bones and nerves they can name for that very same purpose."

She threw her head back and laughed again. John was glad that he had the right response to that moment of self-deprecation; he decided that he liked her laugh. "Oh doesn't everybody want to feel like they're smarter than everybody else? We're all the same."

"Yes", John agreed, except for the extraordinary, self-branded high functioning sociopath that he lived with. He felt smug in this knowledge. "What's that got to do with beer?"

"Clients like their beer and wine," she made a face, "And so I've to know that the Nightwatchman is a classic bitter that's lightly roasted and malty with fluffy head—get your mind out of the gutters—and that Pinot Noir is not tannic, with black cherry aromas and pronounced spiciness, and great with mushroom dishes. We're all pretentious like that."

"Well you're not a bad sort," he complimented her before really thinking it through.

"Thanks, I do try," she said as she picked up a pork crackling, "Oh is this pork rinds? Oh sweet virgin Mary I love those!" She chuckled, as if she said something funny, but John didn't quite pick it up. "Hmmm," she sighed, "Bacony, I'm liking this place more and more."

The Old Bell's pork cracklings _were_ very good, although not for everybody.

"Did you just come here recently?" Her accent hasn't been washed away too much.

"Half a year, I was in the New York office before."

"Why made you move?"

"Well I did consumer retail mergers before this, and the only opening for equity capital markets was the London office, so I jumped, of course. I wanted better hours. Turns out convertible team is quite like typical banking, so I might actually get into equity origination or even syndication. They only do eleven, twelve hours a day, the lucky bastards."

"Twelve hours," he said in amazement.

"Yeah, on average. Forever on call though; never know when you'll be needed."

John smiled a secret smile—he knew that feeling, but his vocation was one that rushed his blood and gave him purpose in life. He was sad for this woman, who had the opposite.

"Oh look at me, whining like I'm a teenager again. It does bring youth back like nothing else, though. How's your work? You enjoy being a doctor? You're not a surgeon, I don't think, your hands were shaking when you were sitting alone over there. Not a pediatrician either; children would cry looking at your frown lines."

John felt like he should be flattered that she had noticed him before he came over, but all of the things to notice, the tremor in his left hand, really? Just his luck. "It only shakes occasionally. I do very well under pressure."

"Oh PTSD, of course, you're definitely a high-functioning ex-military man. My roommate back in college made me watch all these documentaries with her," she grimaced, "And let me tell you I thought I was pretty fucked up."

He let out a laugh. It was nice to have somebody be so blunt about it, completely insensitive and borderline rude. God he hated pity, even if it worked in his favor when chatting up girls. Also his threshold for being offended kept rising and rising the longer he lived at 221B Baker Street.

"Not that PTSD is a trivial matter, you know, but everything should be laughed at," she shrugged, and it was almost a justification for her insensitivity.

Or perhaps it came with being a banker, John thought. "Laughing about it is certainly better than some of the alternatives."

"I read this book once, about how this advertising agency's project was to make an ad that would made breast cancer patients laugh about breast cancer."

"That seems like a tall order."

"Totally, I can't remember if they succeeded or not though. Probably not."

"Suppose the author couldn't come up with anything that fit the bill."

"True that."

In the natural lull of conversation, they both took a long gulp of beer.

"So uh, you _are_ a surgeon?" she started again.

"Surgical houseman—they call it something else now, but I can't remember. I do clinic work, mostly walk-in patients. I was actually trained at Barts—that's why I was an army doctor—but most people don't come into the clinic with gunshot wounds or gashing bleeding messes."

"Yeah, life never gets interesting enough for bleeding messes."

"You'd be surprised," he chuckled, thinking about their last homicide.

"Really?" Her eyes lit up, unusually interested in such a gory, macabre image. "I sense an interesting story?"

"Very! Our last case involved this serial killer who killed women and took a body part each time to assemble a whole person in an attempt to resurrect his old sweetheart."

Her eyes grew wider than a saucer, and John was momentarily afraid that he had scared her off. He didn't think he had even talked about the consulting detective bit to her yet, so he must have come off as a bit of a nutter too. Great. Thanks Sherlock, ruining yet another date, before it even got to be a date.

"Ooh, the _Frankenstein Killer_!" her tone betrayed no fear though, and in fact, she sounded as excited as Sherlock was when presented with a serial killer.

"That's what sensational news called him, yes," John nodded, relieved that she seemed far more intrigued than horrified. He must have forgotten telling her about Sherlock, he thought as he polished the bottom of his third beer.

"So what happened? How did you solve it?" She was leaning forward in her seat and John was struck by how liquid and bright her eyes were.

"Well, Sherlock, my flatmate, noticed at the crime scene that this pair of skid marks that looked like—" But before he could get into telling the story, Mike Stamford came bustling in.

John waved to Mike, and Mike immediately came over.

"Didn't know you were bringing a lady friend," Mike said good-naturedly, "Would have brought the missus then." John liked Mike, really he did; it was just that Mike tended to miss social cues, despite his good nature.

"We only just met," the so-called lady friend smiled at Mike, less wide than the one she gave him when he came around, but definitely more deliberate and coy.

John was briefly annoyed that she gave Mike that smile and not him, but quickly realized that he couldn't really compare himself to Mike, else he'd completely lose his mind. Besides, Mike was happily married, and his ring shined with good care and frequent polishing.

Mike pulled out the chair next to John very naturally and sat down, beaming and not at all picking up on the slight glare that John was directing to him. "So, horrid day, eh? So much haze!"

John really, really didn't care about the weather.

"Absolutely horrid," she said, and John wondered if he was reading too much into her cheeky grin, or was she actually sharing an inside joke with him about how horrid Mike's entrance timing was.

"So, how's the clinic been?" Mike asked with his high-pitched laughter, "Oh John here is a _doctor_, did you know that?"

John wanted to slink away in a corner—Mike was not being the good wingman that he thought he was.

"Yes, we might have exchanged professions some time before you came in," she continued with her barely concealed sauciness.

John wanted to applaud her ruthlessness, but concluded that it might be a downward spiral for Sherlock if he encouraged rudeness. "Good, the clinic's been good; how's teaching at Bart's?"

Mike gave a small grimace, "Same as always, insufferably bright and innocent youths."

"Youth is inherently insufferable because," she drawled, "one never knows what to do with it until the mid-life crisis. John here was telling a story before you came in though, shall we let him finish?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Mike agreed easily.

"Right. So," he cleared his throat and continued, "So Sherlock noticed," here he saw Mike chuckle to himself, "Noticed that the skid marks were actually wheel marks, too close together for a suitcase though. We didn't figure out until later that it was from the sort of two-wheeled cart that old people use to carry heavy groceries home. At the time, he—"

Her Blackberry vibrated violently.

"Sorry," she apologized quickly, and pulled up the phone. "Hello? Uh-huh. _Fuck_, right _now_? Okay, okay, of _course_ I'll be there, but make _Jonathan_ call Leo, I don't want to be the one doing it two nights in a row. Alright, see you." She hung up and gave a rueful smile, "Sorry, got to run, fire drill."

"No problem," John said despite a small disappointment pooling in his stomach, "Let me get that then," he shifted left to reach for his wallet.

"No it's alright," she flipped her hand at him, "It's on company tab. Yes we have a company tab. If your clinic needs going public, think of us, ja?" She winked. "And here," she reached for her own plaid wallet and pulled out a card, "Call me to explain that gory mess of body parts, please, I'm _dying _to know!"

John took her business card as she walked out, heels clicking the slightly sticky floor of The Old Bell quicker than the average woman in heels. He looked at the card in his hands—tastefully cream colored, heavy paper, her name printed in neat, professional blocks: "M. Vina Morstan, CFA," he read.

And put it in his pocket and promptly forgot about it when a case came up the next day.

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed Vina as a character, and liked how Sherlock was everywhere, despite not being there at all.

Please review and leave your thoughts!


	2. What Wild Voyage

**Part II**

**What Wild Voyage**

_Laistrygonians and Cyclops,  
wild Poseidon—you won't encounter them  
unless you bring them along inside your soul,  
unless your soul sets them up in front of you._

* * *

It took a particularly difficult Sherlock during a particularly hard case before John threw his hands into his pockets in exasperation, and almost cut his fingers against the rigid edge of a business card. He took it out, and in exactly thirteen long seconds made a decision to snitch his phone out of Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock gave some indignant grunt that John chose to artfully ignore before letting his laptop be snatched away by the sulking genius. He put in the numbers very carefully, checking twice to see that no wayward thumb had made a fool out of him.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end sounded vaguely bemused, with the slightest tinge of impatience masked by polite curiosity.

"Hullo," he responded, thinking perhaps that he was made a fool after all. "Vina? Vina Morstan?"

"Yes, this is she. Who am I speaking to?" There was a faint curse, and the sound of very furious typing; a yell in the background, and a retort yelling back. This was not how John envisioned the floors of a bank to be like—it sounded so much more informal than the time they went to Shad Sanderson with Sebastian Wilkes.

"This is John Watson," there was no faint sound of recognition, so he went on, "From Old Bell's,

"Ah yes," she responded, and John hoped that he didn't concoct the warmth washing over her voice.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked and silently pleaded that it wasn't, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock's arm raised and aiming at the wall again.

"It depends," she answered, "On why you called." _Bang_. John didn't have to turn his head to know that Sherlock's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Was that…a _gun_ shot?"

"Yes," John answered, and feeling lucky, he tried, "I was actually wondering if you wanted to—"

"Where _are_ you?"

"Home, don't mind the shot, that's just Sherlock, my flatmate, er, thinking." He cleared his throat, "But as I was saying, when you have the time, I'd like to finish the story over a drink or—"

John was fated to never ask her out, because at that precise moment, Sherlock suddenly leap up from the couch, caught up in his eureka moment, and yelled out, "The _wax_, John, the _wax_!" and dashed out madly.

His sighed carried over as static into the phone. "Sorry," he apologized very sincerely, although no doubt the sincerity would not carry over nearly as well as his puff of breath. "I think he just got a lead."

"A lead?"

"To this case, I've to go—"

"Can I come?" the voice on the other end of the phone whispered excitedly.

"Can you?" John was surprised by her enthusiasm—she was clearly busy a moment ago.

"Hold on," then her voice came through muffled but fervent, "Dan, could you cover for me? I've got Aston on the Caesar deal, and Stephan on Hierophant—shouldn't blow up. Thanks, god I'll even wash the damn dishes for you!" And clarity again, when she removed her hand, still whispering and even more fervently, "I'll be there as quickly as a taxi will take me."

"It would be dangerous."

"What's the address?" she ignored his warning.

The door opened again to show Sherlock frowning and his eyes mad and glistening like diamonds under showcase lights, "What are you _waiting for_, there's a killer to be caught!" It was rare for Sherlock to double back just to make sure that he was coming, so John knew that some sort of bodily violence would probably ensue.

John hesitated, his morality battling, but then quickly said: "The Peckham Rye train station". He didn't wait to hear her reply.

* * *

As always, Sherlock was right about the crime part, and John was right about the violence part. The mob was expecting them when they got there, and a heavy fight ensued.

It turned out that suspect was a member of the band of young men who wanted to replicate the Original Brooklyn Youths, and his clique of course came to back their member. As physically fit as John was, he was no match for a group of street boys, and he was soon subdued after Sherlock was knocked unconscious to the ground.

When he came to, John found himself lying on the train tracks, hands and feet bound by sailor's knots and his legs tied to the tracks. He couldn't help but giggle a little. This was like a textbook story of an investigation gone wrong. It failed to seem real. Cartoon violence. Except he was beginning to lose feeling in his legs.

He giggled again. Damned adrenaline. "So explain to me," he said amid giggles to Sherlock, who was tied up in the same manner beside him, "How did you solve the case?"

"John," Sherlock answered gravely, "We're tied to _train_ tracks, and I know for a fact that the Four train to Highbury is due in exactly fourteen minutes."

"Well, it's not like we have anything else to do, have we?"

Sherlock found that very reasonable, so he explained: "I knew that I saw the peculiar type of wax before, but it wasn't until tonight that I remembered that it was at—"

"From the _beginning_, Sherlock," John interrupted him, "So that I could follow, instead of you just yabbering on."

"You _are_ in a foul mood. Why I would have never pegged you for the type to be against being tied up."

"It's the wrong reason to be roped up, that's what."

"I always supposed that you were rather bitter about not receiving anything from Irene."

"_Sherlock_, the case."

"Oh right, yes. Well even somebody as daft as you can see, that the footsteps that the woman kept hearing at night were nothing but the echoes from the particular architectural domes in the hallway."

"Yes," well John had thought it was echoes of some sort, which was close enough.

"Then you ought to have realized that it came from the passage between the walls."

"The passage?"

"One of the rooms was not perfectly symmetrical, but in fact was shorter on one side by two feet. The house was built immediately after the second World War, and the owner must have been paranoid and put in a secret escape route. Tracing the way the draft flows through the room, it was easy to see that some man must have snuck in through the back of the house. Now the question remained, what was the man looking for?"

John hoped the question was rhetorical, because he certainly did not have the answer.

"Tsk," Sherlock made a tut in disappointment and went on, "Then it became clear to me that since the husband was a frequent of the pub right by their house, that the passage-rat must have picked up information there. Given the husband's usual taciturn nature, he had to be smashed and yet conscious enough to perhaps brag about something."

"_That_'s why you got me royally sloshed at that pub?"

"Yes. It is usually helpful to retrace a dead man's last steps. Which leads us to the wax. There were candles in the dining room of the house."

"Chandeliers usually have candles, yes."

"But those were a special kind of candles, John. The wax that composed those candles had a thinning agent that is only found in made-to-order candles from the factory in Surrey."

"…Okay," John encouraged.

"Ugh, don't you see? Remember last month when Kent called us over to have me look into their lost sapphire?"

"The Earl of Kent's mansion?"

"Please, I would hardly call that place a _mansion_."

John gave him a stern look.

"At _most_ a manor. But their chandeliers carried the same candles."

"So?"

"_So_, our murdered victim was the loyal employee of Kent, who brought back pieces of the Kent estate with him, beginning with candles, and ending with the sapphire crown."

"Wait, wait," John stopped him, "How does that lead us _here_ though?"

"Clearly he had told somebody about it while drunk, and that made its way to the wrong crowd. The gang that deals with most of the precious stones trafficking in this area meets here on a regular basis, and whoever stole it would need to dispose of it before the season ends."

"But it wasn't just a petty thief turned situational murderer."

"No, I hadn't expected for the actual gang to be involved in that episode," Sherlock admitted with some difficulty.

"I see," John said, and while his tone was not accusatory, Sherlock still blew up.

"It was a perfect plan!" Sherlock cried out in outrage, "But _somebody_ had leaked the information of our whereabouts."

"Shouldn't your genius mind have taken that into consideration?" John replied snappily.

"I hardly took into consideration your utter incompetence."

"_My_ incompetence?"

"Even you can't be daft enough to not realize _now_," Sherlock sounded impatient and mean—that was, more so than usual, "That the woman you were trying to bed was fishing for information and therefore endangered us. Or even if she wasn't the leak, then your telling her was the leak, since that was the only instance in which my plan was exposed."

John spluttered with indignation: "Oh no you don't get to pin this on me; your failure is your failure."

"Don't forget that you're tied up here with me as well."

"I frequently fail, I'm used to it."

"Don't be snide, John," Sherlock drawled, "It's a terrible defensive tactic, and never draws the attention away."

"You are right, it is my failure. It's always my failure, isn't it?"

Sherlock, did not pick up on the theatrics and continued leisurely: "It was my failure to not have kept a closer eye on you. I had overestimated my intellectually superior influence on you, and had expected you to exercise a base level of logic."

John returned to spluttering.

At this point, the guy in charge of guarding them—whom they have all but forgotten—got too upset over being both ignored and forced to listen to a domestic, that he came up to the tied up men with a piece of thick iron tube. "Shut your mouths or I'll clobber you so hard that you wish the train was coming right _now_."

"The train _is_ coming right now, what you mean is that it is _here_ now—"

"Sherlock," John warned.

"—In fact, the Four train is coming right now at roughly the permissible speed of one-hundred-twenty-five miles per hour—"

"_Sherlock_," John warned again, seeing the growing redness of their guardian's face and the tightness in his hold of the metal tube.

"—Which is something that you should know, a simple mathematical fact like this should not tire even the capacity of your puny brain—"

"Why you little—" the burly man began as he swung the tube upwards to strike Sherlock.

It was at that moment that for dramatic purposes, that Vina entered stage left, with a revolver in one hand and a phone in the other. She pointed the barrel at the man, eyes only flickering to John and Sherlock very quickly, and enunciated: "I have waited my entire life to say this exact phrase: 'Drop your weapon or I will shoot!'"

If John was not used to picking out the newbies on the field, he would have missed the telltale tremble in her left hand. As it was, he just prayed that the mob guard wasn't as good as him.

The burly man laughed and took a step towards her. Sherlock took this opportunity to extend the length of his legs and trip the man. Vina swiftly ran over, hit him on the back of his head with a rock, and then stabbed him with her … phone.

Her phone turned out to be a Taser. Well that was certainly one way to end this near-death-experience, John mused rather composedly. He would say he was in shock, except these scenarios happened with such regular frequency that all he felt was the vague, surging euphoria of defying death yet another time. Although to be fair, this time was different from the normal ones—if nearly dying could be have a 'normal'.

Vina did not seem to recognize the strangeness of her phone-Taser though. She looked down at him like a kid expecting praise and proudly declared, "Krav Maga is super effective; Bad Guy Number 2 fainted." Then she proceeded to undo the ropes that bound them.

"Was that really?" John couldn't think of anything more important to say but confirm that the coolest woman just saved his ass. "Krav Maga, I mean."

Except she gave him a look with raised eyebrows, "No, I swung a rock."

"So it wasn't…"

"No. "

"Oh."

"Krav Maga would have been more graceful," Sherlock grumbled as both John and Vina knelt to untie him. "You shame your military training."

John shrugged, "It was graceful enough to save our arses."

She gave a laugh as Sherlock came free, "Thanks, I think."

"Enough idle chitchat," Sherlock leapt onto his feet, flinging the ropes away. "Much to do," he yelled gleefully, before jogging off.

"Where is he going?" Vina asked.

John shrugged. Like he had any idea, ever, about Sherlock's plans. "I usually just try to keep up."

"Well," she grinned, "Then we better get going."

John looked her quizzically: she was a little on the short side without her heels and a little stiff in her way of standing, as if she wasn't quite sure why she was so close to the ground. The corner of her eyeliner or eye shadow—some sort of makeup—was smudged a little, and make her eyes look rounder and softer than he remembered. Her hair was perhaps more mussed than he had seen before, although still a bit flat. She did _not_ look like the type to give chase to criminals.

"You sure?" he asked, just to be safe.

"Don't you dare give me the Monty Python cop-out!" Her tone was accusatory but she was smiling prettily, so he shrugged and invited her jog after Sherlock.

After an acceptable pause as they ran along the train tracks, John asked casually: "Was that your boyfriend?"

"Who?"

"Dan, on the phone." If he sounded out of breath, then it was definitely because of the running part.

She began laughing, but quickly stopped as it took too much air, "No, no, Dan's my roommate. I've known him forever; we transferred here together."

"Roommate?"

"Can't afford Covent Garden unless otherwise."

"Covent Garden? Banking does pay you well."

"Marylebone isn't half bad either."

"Special rate from Mrs. Hudson, old favor that Sherlock did. Otherwise you'd have to tan my skin to get half a month's rent."

"What, got her out of a tight spot?"

"Actually," he grinned, remembering his own misguided assumption when he first heard of this favor, "Made sure her husband got his head chopped."

"How feminist!" she exclaimed, "How much do the other tenants pay?"

"There's just a basement, and nobody would take it. Dreadful mold."

"Well I'd never convince Dan to move from Covent; he adores the flashiness. Except maybe if we were to move to SoHo, but that's _worse_."

"You know London real estate expenses well."

"Oh yes," she grinned cheekily, "I pick up on what and where is expensive _very_ quickly."

"High maintenance," he joked.

"Some things are worth the effort," she continued her cheekiness, but the attitude was lost in her breathiness.

John could feel a warmth creeping behind his ears: she had sounded so breathy that her words were suggestive instead of saucy.

By the time they caught up to Sherlock, he was standing over a line of handcuffed rudeboy-wannabes. As much as Sherlock scorned the police department's intellect levels, it had to be said that when it came to physically fighting criminals, Lestrade's team had the advantage of numbers.

And guns, John thought as he lamented the loss of his Browning. It must be with one of the boys, and would undoubtedly end up in police evidence. He would have to get drinks with Lestrade soon—just hammered enough to get his gun back, and have Lestrade not remember the details of his request.

Sherlock was in a good mood, despite needing the assistance of Lestrade on this case—even genius was not above petty vengeance, as he smirked when Lestrade shoved the suspect into one of the police cars.

In satisfaction, he turned around to see John and Vina approaching. "Ah," he said, and John was immediately worried.

Sherlock in a good mood was almost as volatile as Sherlock in a bad mood. If he had any luck, Sherlock would go and say something nasty about Vina's mouth—she had Molly's mouth, and it sort of thinned when she smiled and Sherlock was so unnecessarily focused on lips. John thinned his eyes and tried to prevent Sherlock from being rude, but when had that ever worked?

"Well this is interesting. It would appear that you were not the one who leaked our whereabouts after all. Why are you here then? Why should this involve you, a businesswoman?" Sherlock began deducing. It would seem that he was caught on a roll of explanation and proving his unmatched intelligence.

Well that was easy enough, John thought, given that Vina was in a bloody suit. _Just leave it at that_, John pleaded silently. Some god out there laughed.

Sherlock took a step closer and began again: "You're single, never married, works in an office facing west with a very large window, wants to buy a cat but your roommate won't let you, he's male by the way," he looked at John to see no reaction there, went on, "You just moved here, but why, you obviously have a good career track…Oh!" his eyes widened by the slightest fraction, "You moved to avoid sexual harassment from your old boss, of _course_!"

John sighed, "Sherlock!" _Bit Not Good_, he signalled, "You can't just—"

"No, no, it's quite alright," Vina breathed out, "He's perfectly right. Care to walk the common people through how you got it?"

John's eyebrows shot up. Well there was no harm in it if she was interested—in fact it was _good_ if she was interested.

Sherlock gave her a small hum in equal parts of pride and disdain before catching John's eyes. He then gave a long, exasperating sigh, as if saying _Must I?_

John gave him a significant look, as if replying, _Yes, Sherlock._

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, and turned his focus onto Vina. "You're nervous—more than nervous, slightly anxious. You're clutching you handbag but not holding it closer to you; usually when women are threatened they immediately bring their handbags closer, so it's not the fear of safety, but it is a guttural reaction, so you have some sort of safety guarantee inside your bag. You don't have a gun, not enough credit if you just moved from America—your accent, is it Chicago urban? General American dialect with the vowels drawn out, but I haven't touched up on my linguistics in a while. So only a Taser would fit inside. But it's clear that you just came from work, and it's not John you're worried about, you've already ran half of the city with him, so it's for _work_ that you're preparing the weapon for. You travel everywhere by cab so that's not the concern, since the Taser wouldn't even reach the driver, so it must be your actual work environment. Given that you just moved here, it is unlikely that the problem originated here—so the reason of your move then, but what could result in such a drastic change? Somebody above you, your boss, whom you have no control over, and a man, statistically speaking, there are barely any females above your station, and you put that together, _obviously_ it's sexual harassment. Bit of an overreaction, really, but it was good that you broke up with your previous boyfriend, he proposed, and if you're already bored of him in a barely-there relationship, imagine the boredom marriage would bring."

He turned his eyes to John, as if expecting praise.

John fought hard to not give him it.

Vina, however, had no such inhibitions. "That was kind of amazing. You could probably write my biography if you ever felt so inclined. And _really_, how did you even know that my ex proposed?"

"Your finger—there is a small band of white skin. Not long enough to be serious, but enough to make an impression. You haven't gone tanning or done anything to remove the discoloring, so the sight of it doesn't bother you; only the party doing the leaving is not bothered by a reminder. "

"As good as the legend say," Vina complimented, and then turned to John, "How do you live with this guy again? He probably knows all your porn habits just from looking at the edge of your sock or something."

Sherlock snorted, "_Please_, I don't have time for something as mundane as _porn_."

John ignored that and told Vina: "Patience is something you learn in the military."

"A monument of Patience, you are, sitting with your green and yellow melancholy."

John smiled, that had to be a quote from something—he didn't know, so he tried to make the best of the situation: "Who can be melancholic with you around?"

"Oh aren't you the charmer?" she glanced at him through the corner of her eyes, smiling. "I'm sure you get dates out of girls like a magic trick."

"Well," John said with a smudge of pride (alright, bit more than a _smudge_), "The date is the easy part. Although, usually it's the soldier bit, and occasionally the gay and alcoholic sister with a particularly tough play after a few too many drinks. Not a mad chase through London after some criminal."

She scoffed, "Military men are _common_, and so are alcoholics and lesbians; but _you_ are one special snowflake."

John couldn't quite figure out if she was being sarcastic or not. She had a habit of saying everything like it was sarcastic. So he asked instead: "Dinner on Friday?"

"I would only say yes on only one condition."

"And what's that?"

She grinned at him like she was mad, and John's heart soared in hope. "That if ever madness strikes again, you bring me."

"Course," he said, trying to sound nonchalant but he knew his face was breaking into a similar grin at the thought of another case.

"Well then, I have to sneak out of here before the police want me to testify. The paperwork with the PR would literally bury me, and then I wouldn't be able to get dinner," she hitched her handbag higher on her shoulder as she left, "So adieu, my good gentlemen."

"I'll call you with the reservation," John said after her.

"You better," she responded without looking back.

Well that went surprisingly well, John thought to himself. "You know Sherlock, usually you have a more successful time botching my dates with your deductions."

"Oh please," Sherlock waved it off, "It was just the harmless basics. You would have had to find that out if you were to date anyway. You should thank me for quickening the process."

"Thank _you_? It's more like my charm got through _despite_ you."

"You can now bypass the get-to-know-you social stage before sexual intercourse," Sherlock offered.

"_Sherlock_! Don't put it so crudely! Besides, you might have scared her off."

Sherlock scoffed, "You got a date, didn't you?"

"Well, yes."

"Then no harm done. Really John, you're making such a fuss."

"_Me_ making a fuss?" he grunted in frustration.

"Yes. Besides, it is obvious that she's not into you."

John rolled his eyes. "She just agreed to a date. _After_ being dragged into a case. You know how much wheedling I had to do with Sarah to get her to go out after the Black Lotus fiasco?"

"Water-cooler pick-up lines, I presume," Sherlock commented.

For a man emotionally challenged, Sherlock sure did have a good understanding of the dating game, John found himself thinking not for the first time. "Point is, if she's not _interested_, she wouldn't have agreed!"

"Oh John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, talking as he always did when he felt like John was being abnormally obtuse, "She is a fairly attractive woman with a successful career, entering her late twenties, why would she go for a man with a growing beer belly in an ugly sweater ten years her senior with PTSD?"

Well, when he put it like that… "Maybe we had a connection!"

"That's thin even for you," Sherlock scoffed so expertly, "Her interests so far have been shown to be crimes, by ditching her job and coming here, and my deduction, which _clearly_ impressed her. So it's an obvious and simple answer: she is _not_ interested in you, she's interested in _me_."

John gave himself a few seconds to make sure that he was hearing it correctly, before laughing, "_You_?"

"Don't sound so scandalized, John; there are people enamored with me, and even more enamored with the idea of genius. Molly, the former, and all those fan mail that you sort through for me for the latter. You should know. In any case, you would have to tell her that _I_'m not interested, married to my work and all. I trust you to figure out the delivery."

And whoosh, Sherlock walked away, his coat flapping behind him in the night like a dark cape, leaving John to follow him once again.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Well, now that it's pretty much accepted that there will be a wedding. I suppose this story will be considered AU once the new season comes out. It would be a shame if they did make Mary Morstan out of Amanda Abbington-that would take some much freedom of creation away from the fandom. Then again, do we really care, as long as we FINALLY have the new season? At least they didn't pull an Arrested Development and make you wait _seven years_.

Please review? Pretty please?


	3. The Invention of Fate

**Part III**

**The Invention of Fate**

_Hope the voyage is a long one.  
May there be many a summer morning when,  
with what pleasure, what joy,  
you come into harbors seen for the first time;_

* * *

The day of fate begun like any other: alarm at 6:25am, bad singing of a song that was popular in his uni days in the shower, jumper number 5, bed to be made, and a quick breakfast. Indeed, the day was on its way to transpire like any other, until he filled the kettle and John found himself looking at a sticky note on the burner, where Sherlock occasionally stuck notes (usually with stains of a questionable chemical smell) when he wanted to make sure that John didn't miss them.

It made no sense at all.

John recognized the loopy zeros with the slight curl at the closing, and definitely the paper—since he took care of all the shopping, including for stationary—but what he didn't understand was why it was in binary code, for the note was just filled with ones and zeros. John put on the kettle, and as he waited patiently for the kettle to whistle, he pondered over the note and whether Sherlock expected for him to actually figure out what it meant.

The note said, just for the accuracy of this documentation: '01101101 01100001 01101110 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100101 01110011'.

He typed it into his phone, but the only search results that came up were Google Books and idiots on Yahoo Answers. He was sure that he missed a zero in there somewhere, but the sea of binary was making his head hurt, so he abandoned it in favor of making an extra strong cuppa.

Work was as menial and vaguely gratifying as always. There was a bit of excitement when this one kid who refused to take his shot slipped by Sarah like a little eel and swam his way all throughout the clinic, even to the front desk, where the receptionist Ruby caught him with expert hands. Apparently Ruby had a lot of siblings who all married early, and therefore had a lot of little nephews and nieces to practice on. It would have never occurred to the rest of them that gossipy, restless Ruby would be the best with kids.

That was in the morning. By lunch break, everything was back to normal, and James was once again talking about how being here was both a waste of talent and a waste of life, the corporate structure and bureaucracy making them vapid, meaningless individuals. Everybody held these doubts on occasion, that their job was making them bad people, but James was the one who made a habit of talking about it during lunch. Still, their group was small enough, and by nature xenophobic enough that they stuck to each other, bearing through the banal talks of gossip and existential crisis if they must.

"We're underpaid and underappreciated," Harry finished resolutely, biting through a mellow apple, with a piece of red skin stuck in between his teeth.

John thought that it was an alright sort of job—it certainly wasn't changing the world, and none of them were going to afford their private island any time soon, but he was fine with that. He knew Harry was fine with that as well, but John supposed that some people were just born for self-righteous talks like this.

So he said, "Things are alright," then he added, to be safe, "at the national level."

Harry laughed, but John could tell that it wasn't a funny laugh. "Them dumb bastards in the Big Brother program? Load of bull, they're even more brainless twerps than we are."

Well, nobody could say that Mycroft was brainless, but John just shrugged and finished the last of his ham sandwich. It was starting to get soggy anyway.

The rest of the hour block was filled with Harry's cynical talk, and Grace defending their job, and their country if necessary. Sarah sometimes broke in to play the devil's advocate once in a while. John didn't bother to participate.

Everybody could be a cynic, really, the hard thing was to get through it all. The trick to living out work life was just to be as nice as possible, say thank you at every available occasion, and smile when you didn't feel like it. It was general knowledge that every day was completely without meaning, perhaps ending a cold a day earlier than it would have naturally for a child, or assuring some man that no there were no parasitic tapeworms in his brain. But there was no point in saying anything negative or ironic about their days, since they all shared them. Those who could do greater things went on with greater things—the old people (well, Grace, really) liked to tell the story of a Peter Parker who went from their clinic to become the Head of Diagnostics at King's. Now, they had their reserves, not in the least because of a name like Peter Parker, but they liked listening to the story as much as Grace liked telling it. It filled their smoke breaks with a vague, golden kind positivity, as if the realm of possibility just expanded itself. Either that or the free doughnuts on Fridays. But there weren't ever enough doughnuts on Fridays.

They had a lot of stories, but Ruby was the one with the most of them. Ruby liked talking about grotesque things. She was the one who set up betting pools about if old Hank from the IT firm next door would die from recurrence in his bladder cancer. For somebody who was supposed to greet people for a living, she sure was fascinated by them dying. She frequently wandered down the hall, and stood by the door, knocking at the frame with her slender fingers, and it didn't matter who it was, as long as the person didn't have a patient. She would ask, for formality's sake, if they were busy, but before whoever the person was could answer, she would delve into some piece of gossip she picked up, sometimes going into too much detail about Hank's urine control or lack thereof.

John was the said person at the end of his shift. Ruby stood there, too much leg showing from under her dress than was appropriate for work, her voice droning on. John toned her out, and instead gathered his belongings. He knew that it wouldn't deter or offend Ruby—if fact he doubted if Ruby actually could see him even, right now, carried away by her own voice.

"… and the next day Olivier wore _the same shirt_, John, the _same shirt_. What are you doing?"

"Oh I'm packing up for the day," John replied casually.

"Oh," Ruby seemed slightly put off, but soon cheered up and asked, "What do you think about it?"

"About what?"

"Olivier and Sarah, you great big oaf," Ruby giggled. She had an awful habit of calling people names, but she thought it made her contrary and cute.

"What Olivier?" John asked, a little bit intrigued now, but he still needed to pick up milk on the way home, and he had a _date_ tonight damn it, he needed some time to prepare.

"Olivier Owens, from that big corporate building around the corner. He is _cute_, how do you reckon that Sarah caught herself somebody like _that_?"

"As opposed to somebody like me?" John asked wryly.

"Oh gee!" Ruby's eyes widened and she covered her mouth, "I didn't mean it like _that_ you know!"

And the sad thing was that she didn't, John knew. "In any case, I really have to go."

"Well, alright," Ruby said disappointedly.

John smiled at her, said thank you, and then rushed out, only taking one appreciative backwards glance at her backside and smooth legs. See, it was hardly a difficult task to get by in the office.

The market was harder, but mostly because he had wagered another war with the chip-and-pin machine. John could swear that they were created just for the sake of making his life harder.

To make matters worse, he could hear the violin the moment he opened the building door, and while the music was beautiful, he groaned at the thought of Sherlock being home when he primed himself for the date. It would be a feat if he got out the door at all, John thought as he climbed the stairs.

"Did you get the note?" John was greeted by the back of Sherlock and this question upon entering their flat.

It took John only a moment to understand what he was talking about, surprisingly. "The bit of nonsense with the ones and zeros?"

"It's _binary_ code, John," Sherlock said with a tone that indicated how much scorn he had for the human race.

"I know that it's _binary_," John fumbled with words, "But I still have absolutely no idea what it meant."

"You have a smartphone," Sherlock replied annoyed, "And while I don't expect you to be competent enough to understand basic binary language, there are plenty of people out there who don't have anything better to waste their life on."

"Or I could just ask you," John offered, "which I did, but you never replied my text." Sherlock responded with an extra flair in the notes, so John added hopefully, "So what did it mean?"

"Manatees."

"Sorry, what?"

"Manatees," Sherlock said over the music, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "The case rested on manatees. Very sensitive information, the killer would have been paranoid to kill over the discovery, which was why I left it in a code."

John was worried; usually when Sherlock admitted to the presence of danger, he was either luring John away from a date or it was actually dangerous enough for him to warn John. Neither case was pleasant. "Kill, you say? Should we, uh, should we ring up Greg then? Since it might be dangerous."

Sherlock ignored him and drew out the end of the song.

"I'll call him right now?" John ignored the kettle that he had put on the moment he got home, and dug out his phone from his coat pocket.

Sherlock tried out two notes on his violin before he drawled, "No need, the man has been apprehended already."

John quickly hung up before the call went through. "I thought you said—"

"Danger," Sherlock clucked, "is time-sensitive. In this case the time was this morning, when I left the note. Honestly, John." And Sherlock began Schubert's _Standchen_.

Sherlock must be a really good mood, John thought as he went back to his business of tea, to play something so overused by the idiotic masses and sentimental. Perhaps he could even sneak by the _entire_ date this time without Sherlock throwing a fit and dragging him back here to fetch, oh, a bag of pig's blood. Those were the time that he actually needed something from five meters away. John swore, Sherlock could be replaced by a demon, and he would hardly notice the satanic sacrificial rituals.

But it was a beautiful evening when John finally stepped out of the building, blazer and tie freshly ironed, and his hair combed back, and he was determined to enjoy the night.

He could not help but feel that it was beautiful for him, for him only. Despite being unusually grandiose and unpractical, it was still an uplifting notion, and John indulged in it. He had never held any misconception that the universe was constructed around him, but it was lovely to entertain the thought for a second, outside of their apartment.

(Because inside, it was an irrefutable fact that the universe was constructed around Sherlock.)

He flagged down a cab, double checked in the rear mirror that the man did not look suspicious and had the telling oil stain down his neck that told of eating fast food while driving. "Bedford Court," he gave.

Vina wasn't there yet when he pulled up.

John checked his watch—ten minutes to seven, he was early by only a little bit, so he paid the cabby and waited inside the lobby of the apartment. There was a slightly awkward exchange with the doorman, who asked him with polite suspicion if he could help him. John explained that he was waiting, and the man had a dawning look of empathizing understanding and let him be.

It took Vina another twenty minutes to get down. John had thought that a banker would be impeccably on time, but apparently that stereotype was wrong as well.

"You look lovely," he complimented, and it was true.

She was in a gorgeous one shouldered yellow dress, ruffles cascading down her pearly shoulder, meeting a sea of pleated silk that flared out at the bottom. The hemline hit three inches above her knees, and was just the right length for a youthful classy look. John was very glad that he put on his good suit.

As do you," she purred out, "and sorry for making you wait, the hair curler was a mess!"

John now noticed that her hair was curlier than he remembered, and it was a pleasing feeling to know that she had gone through the troubles of curlers for him. Perhaps that was why she said that, but John decided to put down the Sherlock act for tonight.

"Shall we go then?" he asked, offering his arm, "Dinner awaits."

"Of course," she answered quickly, "I'm _starving_."

"Have a good night, Mary," the doorman called out as she took his arm.

"Thanks Noah," she called back to him, waving her free hand at the doorman, "you too."

"You know your doorman very well?" John asked, trying to start conversation, but wincing internally at how he must have sounded—jealous of her doorman, really, John?

"Oh yes, it's always a good idea to make friends with the doorman. We get back at such obscene hours, that they need to hold dry cleaning for us." It seemed that Vina didn't think too much on his choice of wording. "It's the same idea as making friends with your secretary. I just gave Elsa, my secretary, such a good bottle of wine the other day. The trick is, of course, to casually mention that it was an extra bottle and I happened to remember how she said she liked reds." She waved her hand dismissively, "Not that she could tell the difference between a ten dollar Barefoot Sauvignon—surprisingly good, actually—and the two hundred Gaja Barbaresco, but there is a card conveniently nudged in there to tell her of the price tag and to talk about the 'raspberry notes' with her wine aficionado-wannabe friends."

John normally didn't approve of condescension of the hint of meanness in her story, but this was a first date, and really she was kind of charming about it. In the end he went with a very safe, albeit slightly sarcastic, "How considerate of you."

She laughed softly, "Oh Elsa is a good secretary, in the sense that she doesn't pay attention to the receipts so I can expense all my cab rides, but Noah the doorman is actually kind of nice to talk to, sometimes. Mostly it's just the desperation of talking to somebody who's not on the team, I think."

"Your team? For work?" John asked. Work was a safe topic, right?

"Yeah. It's actually not that busy—and the summer interns are coming in next month, so I'm only leading a few live deals. Bad for the company, but good for me, in a way." She wrinkled her nose adorably, "Although I guess I should get out of that mindset. Most of my pay comes from bonuses now."

"Isn't that a good thing? You hear in the news all these big, bad banker types with their massive bonuses that are only matched by their egos."

Vina gave a nice laugh again, "Oh I wish I was one of those Jamie Dimon types. And bonuses are tricky, because they're always these testy stock options that have to be vested—wait, are we going to Coq d'Argent?" she asked in marvel.

"You know the place?" John asked. She probably did, it was a very fashionable spot, for the financial people as well. It was also the perfect weather to go outside on the terrace if she felt like it.

"Oh that's wonderful," she said gleefully, "I've never been there on an occasion when I could actually _eat_. Normally I just have to nibble in the smallest bite and carry conversation. How marvellous!"

He was rather pleased with himself on his choice. This was promising to go much better than the last time they saw each other.

They were seated by the window, and there was a brief discussion of the merits of the prix fixe menu versus the a la carte, during which John insisted that Vina get whatever she wanted. In the end they decided to go with the prix fixe, and John couldn't tell if it was because Vina was considerate of his wallet, or she honestly was excited for the prix fixe only pithivier pastry pies. Honestly, sometimes it was a little hard to tell when she was being genuine, but John adopted the 'innocent before guilty' approach, and settled for enjoying the curve of her smiles.

* * *

Dessert was a platter of tiramisu and a cup of crème brûlée. They had decided that they would share, each of them indecisive between the two until Vina declared that it only made sense for them to get both then.

(Sherlock had commented once on how he was attracted to bossy women.)

"I think the lady to the left is eyeing our desserts with considerable envy that only comes from a long and unsuccessful diet," she whispered to him as soon as the waiter left them.

It took John a second to think to whose left this lady in question was, before catching the sight to his right in his peripheral vision. While the way she said it was playful and the sotte voce flirtatious, John would not deny that the lady did indeed look quite green with envy. The diet bit was just Vina being her snarky self, since the lady looked like she was perpetually on a very successful diet.

"Well," he replied in the same loud whisper, "then we will have to put on a great display of how delicious they are."

"Oh I hardly need an incentive to enjoy sugar and carbs."

"You know," John quickly scanned the table to his right, "her companion is rather pudgy, and look constipated as well. Perhaps he's the one who's on the diet?"

Vina raised her eyebrow and look at them as well, under the pretense that she was looking for their waiter, "Why indeed! He has only a _salade verte_! Oh poor thing," she clucked, "if it's one misery that I can commiserate with, it is being unable to eat good food when your face is shoved into it, practically."

"An uncomfortable situation, by any means," he agreed.

"But what excellent insight you have," Vine complimented, "on other people!"

Well, at least John _thought_ it was a compliment. "Thanks, it comes from living with a consulting detective."

"Oh dear, now I'm afraid that I've said more about myself than I would like to, just from, oh, my posture or something," she joked.

Her posture did say a lot about her, John thought, but he decided that it was too early to say that, so he joked back, "You should be."

"Simply terrified," she nodded in pseudo somberness. "I would believe anything you have to say about me, in any case."

"Really? Wouldn't you be skeptical?"

"But everybody wants to be understood and described, whatever skepticism we have just melts away at any generalized comment on oh, how there is a secret shyness underneath our exteriors, and we are of a unusually sensitive disposition. Especially if it is spoken from such a well-shaped mouth as yours."

She was quite good at this, John noted. But she also became bright-eyed when he started making deductions about the table next to them. Then again, people liked gossip, even about strangers, and _every_body liked it when the conversation was about themselves.

But before he could indulge her and go on observing other people, the waiter interrupted them.

"Anything else for you, coffee, tea?" he asked as he gathered the empty plates.

"Would you judge me terribly if I ordered an Irish coffee?" she looked at him with a smile.

"No, go ahead," John said.

"Then an Irish coffee for me," she said to the waiter, before turning back to him, "Coffee and whiskey, what else can you want after a good dinner?"

"Do you have a preference for the whiskey?" the waiter again interrupted.

"Oh, right. Well I guess I'll go with a blended then, do you carry Bushmills?"

"Blackbush or 10 years?

"10 years, definitely."

"Bushmills 10 years it is," the waiter turned to him, "And you sir?"

John debated whether a beer would be too gauche, and deciding, "The same for me."

"Very good," the waiter finally retreated.

But of course, one coffee as the after-dessert turned into numerous rounds, in which Vina and John argued on the merits of gin-based and whisky-based drinks, finally both settling that egg-white drinks were the best, no matter the alcohol.

Vina was a surprisingly weighty drinker, John found out, as his head spun a little and his thoughts took a second longer than they would have normally.

Just when he was about to suggest that they go to a more down-to-earth bar where they wouldn't be judged for being inappropriately drunk at a highbrow French place, or even better, go back to her place for a quiet ambiance—just when he figured out how to phrase that correctly, without sounding like a creep, and evoking trust with his wide-boy-eyes and the honesty in his face—shite, _just_ when he was about to say something, his phone rang.

John had been ignoring most of the texts that Sherlock sent his way so far, only speed-typing a quick reply when Vina was looking at her Blackberry—it was a surprisingly good combination, her work and well, his Sherlock. But his phone vibrated persistently, and he looked down to see Sherlock calling him.

Sherlock never _called_.

"Something urgent?" Vina asked, the hilarity in her voice bubbling down, as they both sobered up more or less.

John said, "Sorry, I have to take this."

She waved her forgiveness, and John rose to go to the terrace to answer it.

"Hullo?" he said into the phone, "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Hello John dear," the voice of Mrs. Hudson came from the phone, and John nearly had a heart attack, thinking—_oh my god, is he okay? What happened? Where is SHERLOCK_—before realizing that Mrs. Hudson sounded very good-humoured and not panicky in any way, unlike himself.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked once he found his voice, "Why are you calling from Sherlock's phone?"

"Oh I came to check on all the banging, to see if he'd been shooting at the wall again, I _just_ had the walls installed last _week_, oh dear, and that was the _fourth_ time this—"

"Mrs. Hudson," he stopped her as politely as possible, "What is it?"

"Oh Sherlock just wanted me to see how you're doing. I've got no idea why he doesn't just call _himself_, but he said something about a _signature_ and how calling and talking to human beings is quite out of the question. Honestly, I can never—"

"Mrs. Hudson," John stopped her yet again, feeling very discourteous but it was a necessary evil, "Is there something I can do for you? Because I'm at dinner, you see."

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson sounded like she had an epiphany, "_Dinner_, you say? Oh I hope she's pretty! Well get on with it then, don't keep a lady waiting! That's bad manners, John!"

"I will," John answered, slowly rubbing his temples.

When he went back inside, all apologetic and smiles, he found Vina furiously typing away on her Blackberry. When he sat down, she brusquely said, "Just a moment."

It wasn't until that 'moment'—which was really about a minute—was over, did Vina put her phone away, and seemed to recover herself, "Sorry," she just remembered to say, "Work stuff. Very gruesome."

"No, no," John gestured, "my bad to begin with."

"Was that Sherlock?"

John looked at her in surprise, "Yes, yes, it was," he lied easily, not wanting to explain the whole Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock refusing to call situation.

"Roommate emergency?"

"Not quite," he didn't know how to explain this away, "He, uh, wanted to check in on how, uh, the dinner went."

"Not much confidence in your dating skills," she said, amused.

"No, that he doesn't have much of. Or confidence in anything, in anyone," he said wryly.

"Well, if I didn't know any better, I would suspect that he didn't want you to be gone for too long," she said.

John instinctively opened his mouth to argue, and found that he had no argument.

"But," she went on, "I do know better, so I know that he doesn't."

He smiled sheepishly, somehow taking responsibility for Sherlock's action seeming very natural to the both of them.

"Besides," she smiled coyly, "it would take more than one dinner to make it into my bed."

A little blunt, but he appreciated the honesty. "Well, still, I had a great time," he said, suddenly struck by nerves.

She chuckled, "As did I. In fact, I knew I would before we even went. I gave up my four inch heels, John, that's a mighty sacrifice and considerable confidence in your charms."

"You didn't have to," he motioned to height with his hands, "I don't really mind."

"Don't be silly," she clucked, "There is romance in turning your face upwards to kiss your soldier."

If his back was not already habitually straightened to a stiff line, he would have straightened it more. As it was, however, he glowed a little, despite not having gotten the said kiss yet.

Anticipation made things better, he thought, as he paid for the bill.

They entered into the glass elevator, and it was just the two of them, seeing the expanse of London before them as they descended into it. Halfway through Vina pressed against him, soft, scented flesh warm against his side, and kissed him.

John was taken by surprise, but he soon turned the tables around, and soon Vina emitted a low rumble of approval in the back of her throat, and John all of a sudden found the tipsy euphoria that disappeared when Mrs. Hudson called. Indeed, she had to stand on her tiptoes, and for some reason that detail made John's chest burst.

The night was just as beautiful when they stepped outside, breathless, the star-spangled sky spread out before them like a darkened carpet of farewell. It would be full summer in a week or so, but tonight was one of those rare London nights when it was neither too warm nor too brisk. The grass on the sidewalk bloomed furiously, and the pavement glowed with the residue heat of the day.

John was struck by a moment of fatalism—that this was going far too well to be just pure coincidence, because coincidence never worked in his favor. The only time that things ever went well for him arbitrarily was when Mike Stamford introduced him to Sherlock, and it would be too much to expect that an arbitrary drink with Mike would inadvertently introduce him to Vina as well.

The night was too beautiful, the weather too nice, and just at the perfect cusp of summer, at the best timing, during that lull between cases, a woman so used to her own hectic life that she didn't even notice his inattentiveness, and on a night like _this_.

It made so much sense, and it might have been the four drinks that swirled inside his stomach, but god it was like they were meant to find each other. It was a silly thought, John knew, just like how he felt that the evening was so nice just for him, but again, he couldn't help the thought from permeating the whole of his body.

Everything was unlikely, and wasn't that enough to create a fate from there? There was obviously no cracked animal bone in the Oracle of Delphi to tell who John would meet inside a shoddy bar, and there was no sense in it beyond what John chose to believe, but in that one moment, when his future looked to be filled with love, clean and whole and flush, John chose to believe that it was his romantic fate, that _Vina_ was his romantic fate.

And it was a satisfying thought.

* * *

Author's Note: Ahhh, new season coming!

On a side note, are people actually enjoying this? I'm writing it because the idea of somebody being to John what he is to Sherlock is so enticing, but it's still disheartening to see so few reviews...


	4. Rampant Expectations

**Part IV**

**Rampant Expectations**

_Better if it lasts for years,  
so you are old by the time you reach the island,  
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,  
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich._

* * *

It turned out that fate—or love, or just sex—only took one more date.

Granted, their second date was almost two months later, before the two of them could both commit to a time. However, in the meantime, they had many interactions. Vina had bailed John out once—when Greg got absolutely _livid_ when he found out that John had stolen his Browning gun back from the police station, locked the both of them up, and John had no option but to resort to shame-facedly call Vina up. Vina had thought it a high old joke, laughing about it for _weeks_. And there was that time that they ran into each other at the coffee shop, where they were meeting a client who _refused_ to set outside of the public eye, and she was, well, getting coffee. That was when John and Vina realized that coffee was actually the best occasion to meet up, and then did a few of those, even sneaking into the back door of a small local museum for a fifteen minutes break, gazing at a replica of the _Polish Rider_ with soft intensity.

The date went fine—nothing extraordinary. John did not feel the same overwhelming, irrational sense of fate, but he attributed that to the lack of a full bar at this particular oyster bar. He was not a fan of the slimy bites—although he wasn't _not_ a fan either—but Vina seemed to have a soft spot for them, and he had a soft spot for the way her eyes alighted at the mention of oysters.

They had a few beers, and when the time came and he sent her home in a cab, she had—almost shyly—asked if he wanted a cup of coffee. The euphemism was not lost upon John, and he gladly took up her offer, despite having ordered two cups of it at the restaurant already.

It did not take them long to discard conversation and take up to discarding each other's clothes. He had some trouble with her bra, and she clumsily stabbed her hand with the clasp of his belt. Something about the way she looked like she was holding in laughter—not a cruel laughter, but one that realized the comic nature of trying to peel underwear off while looking appropriately passionate—made his heart jump. It was almost the glee that he felt when his date laughed at a line in a movie that he thought was particularly funny.

There was a timidity to the urgency, small moments where he or she were uncomfortable in their skin, aware of the flabbiness in their abdomen or thighs, before momentarily forgetting their own ugliness in each other's kisses, feeling younger, more wholesome, and even _beautiful_ in certain moments, when there was clear admiration and desire in each other's faces. In a way, sex was like chasing a criminal with Sherlock—or a case with Sherlock was like sex. He was too caught up in—_ah_—feeling and being felt to really think about why that thought felt strange, and soon the main supply of his blood abandoned his brain.

But more than anything, he liked the languid, post-coital haze, completely satisfied, at once slightly hungry and so full, thirsty too but his throat rasping in a good way, and his thoughts turning so heavily, like limbs in thick water.

A clear chime cut through the moment of cuddling, and she dug out his phone from underneath her back and tossed it onto his chest.

He wiped a finger against the sweat-moistened surface and check his messages. Two unopened texts, both from Sherlock, obviously. Nothing urgent, just a general observation of '_Out of milk'_ and then a seemingly innocent '_It was the valet, if you must know.'_ John knew that he had meant 'Where are you' somewhere along the line, but did not feel that it was right to type up a message with Vina peering right at him.

"Another one solved?" she asked, as languid as he felt.

"Genius likes audience," he shrugged.

She raised herself slowly on one elbow and looked at him.

Damn, he slipped again. Not only was it bad to be talking about another person in the post-sex cuddle, but to be talking about _Sherlock_, a man who was menace to his relationship-building endeavors.

"Children," she said slowly, "run up to their parents to show handiwork for their audience, yes, but also the surety of their audience."

It took John a moment to fully absorb all the insinuations jammed in that short sentence, and afterwards, he said thoughtfully: "You know, you're the first woman I've dated who ever anything positive about the man."

Vina collapsed back into the crook of his arm and he felt her shrug against him. "That's why they are in the past tense."

He laughed at her easy confident before growing somber as he realized just how true it was.

That perhaps was the first bell, but in truth, he should have seen it a long time before that.

**-.-.-**

"So how's the dating scene been?" Sarah asked, tossing the question seemingly offhandedly as she pressed the button on the coffee machine, and a stream of spluttering hot coffee shot into her Styrofoam cup.

John gave her a tired smile. He hadn't told any of them of his newfound relationship with Vina. It didn't seem like a good idea, given the overly gossipy nature of the group—it was understandable, really, what did these people have in their lives but general banality?

The pervading smell of vanilla and coffee was invigorating though, and John answered carefully, "Oh, much of the same," before quickly taking a cup as well to busy his hands. He looked down at the cup, as if there was something fascinating about the white, bubbly foam, but he could feel Sarah's gently prying eyes on him still.

"You've been going out on dates less," Sarah remarked.

He shrugged. His cup was done now, and the two of them made their way back to the break room, where the rest of his colleagues were chattering on about other banalities. It was Friday, so they were extending their morning break by an extra ten minutes. Fridays were always the best days, because the impeding weekend brought on a sense of urgency in the morning, and a justification to procrastinate in the afternoon. Also, the vending machine in the back of the kitchenette had the highest frequency of breaking down on Friday—John was pretty sure Harry had made a pie chart or something about it—and that always meant free pop along with the free doughnuts.

But of course all the doughnuts were gone by the time they returned with coffee, with the exception of one single, sad plain old-fashioned, sitting there crumbly and smeared with various icings.

Sarah put a hand on his elbow and brought his attention back. "One of my friends from college is visiting this weekend," Sarah began in the same offhanded way that she inquired about his relationship status, and John could see where this was heading.

Ruby, the leggy receptionist, was in the middle of telling everybody about this new restaurant that was remodeled and reopened, and how the bouillabaisse was just the most delectable thing in the world—except she was pronouncing it like bowl-la-base. Even though, her eyes flicked to John the moment Sarah mentioned her college friend, and John wondered if Ruby was not secretly the smartest person in the room, able to carry out several trains of thought simultaneously.

He was trying to come up with some sort of excuse to not see Sarah's friend—not that he didn't like Sarah, but the last time she tried to set a blind date, the woman had talked about the minimum price of wedding rings within half an hour—when his phone suddenly vibrated.

And it vibrated again, and again, until he realized that it wasn't a text.

Confused, he pulled out the phone, smiling a little apologetically at the group. Sherlock never called—even when his life was in danger he took the time to find all the little keys to text. Mycroft never called him, preferring to take him by surprise. Harry never called, because she knew he wouldn't pick up. Vina never called during the day because she was too busy. There really wasn't that many people in his life, was there?

As it turned out, it _was_ Vina. Her personal number flashed on the screen.

Even more confused, he answered it. "Vina? Is something wrong?"

Great, Ruby face lit up at a girl's name. John knew he couldn't escape the water cooler torture now.

"John," her voice sounded distracted as always when she was working, "You're on coffee break, right?"

"That's right," of course Vina would remember his break schedule, and of course she would only call during his break; she was meticulous and considerate like that.

"Sorry, but are you busy today? Do you have time around noon?"

"No, I have time," it was a day of average patient flow, but surely anything was more exciting than the slow surge of daily headaches and the common flu. Besides, Vina rarely asked anything of him.

"Oh thank goodness, shit," she went silent for a minute, and he could make out a string of curses under her breath and patiently waited for her to finish that email. "John?"

"Still here," he answered.

"Right, something blew up, could you go pick up somebody at the airport? You can take my car, of course, if you want." By now John was versed enough in her lingo to know that 'blowing up' with Vina meant a completely different thing than it did with Sherlock.

"Sure," he could take lunch off, maybe grab a sandwich to go. Hell, he'd take a day's leave to drive her car. Yes, it was _that_ beautiful.

"Flight UA334 from New York, 12:35 arrival. His name is Logan, five eleven, kind of scrawny, probably mismatched clothes. Can't tell you what color his hair will be. Thanks a ton, I'll take both of you to dinner! Okay, got to go, bye!"

Click.

Before Ruby could make out a stream of questions, John stood up and said, "Coffee break over, I better get to the next patient. If anything comes up during lunch, could you cover for me, Sarah?" He hated asking her for favors, but she was the only person who didn't try to dig up everything in his life.

As soon as she nodded with a strained smile, he dashed out.

He almost skipped out when the clock struck eleven thirty. Never mind that it was unbecoming for a man his age to skip, and blast whatever Ella would say about his psychosomatic limp.

Vina's car was a beast: an absolutely _gorgeous_ dark metallic blue Porsche with a matching convertible top, appropriately youthful with two-toned orange leather interior, the wheels coated in a matte platinum. A young-ish bloke in a crisp but cheap suit was waiting by it, tossing a set of keys up in the air and snatching it repeatedly.

John walked up to him. Twenty, if that, with a tie far more expensive than his suit, probably out of his means and a gift. John delighted in trying to figure out people with Sherlock's methods, and he didn't particularly care if he was right: the act itself was fun was all.

"John Watson?" the bloke asked him uncertainly with a slight frown, as if disapproving of his appearance.

John frowned back. He was wearing his Haversack coat, and he looked spiffy, if he did say so himself. It was a rather expensive jacket, no less so than the bloke's tie, and if it was a bit tattered from years of wear and strenuous physical activity in the recent year, it was still well cared for. While his denim jeans didn't exactly fit in with the immediate environment, he wasn't _working_ here. "Those keys are for Vina's Porsche right?"

"Yes, Doctor Watson?"

John nodded.

"ID please?"

John dug into his pocket to get his wallet, and flapped it open to show the bloke his clinic card.

"Ah, sorry, Doctor, can't be too cautious these days," the bloke extended his hand and John plucked the keys out of them quickly. He kept his hand extended however, and John realized that he wanted a handshake. "Archie."

"John Watson," he said, not too offended by youth. In fact it was rather good sense. Vina's firm hired kids with good heads.

"Right. She mentioned something about having a friend fly in, and I offered to get one of the trading interns to go get him for her—God knows that they would welcome a job like that compared to getting everybody's lunch orders. Trading internships." He smiled at John as if he expected John to share the joke, so John smiled back politely. "Anyway, Vina said that she already took care of it."

Well, an unusually chatty one.

"Just be careful, mate, alright? This is Vina's _baby_, and Jove help me if it gets scratched and she's in a mood."

John was getting slightly irritated, because this Archie was keeping John from driving and what, he thought John didn't _know_ that this was Vina's baby? He was a bit presumptuous; John took back the bit about good heads. "I know, I will," he said politely, despite his irritation.

"Ah, okay." The boy was somehow reluctant to leave, and they both turned to look at the waiting car.

The sun broke and shone on the metallic sheen, as if alighting it in an aureole halo. A wave of giddiness hit John as he thought of actually being able to _drive_ this beauty—normally Vina drew the line at driving him to the grocers to get milk, which she did only in apology after _she_ stood _him_ up for dates.

"Right then," he cleared his throat, "I should get going."

"Right," the bloke echoed him, "I'll just see you off."

John pulled open the door and sank into the sports seat. He blinked.

Oh, right, the _left_ side was the driver seat. Vina imported it from the States when she came over. Something about not being able to afford another Porsche. John would have thought it all bull a month ago, but apparently banking was not as lucrative as the masses believed—or at least not at her level.

He climbed out and into the other side, careful to not look at the bloke's face.

Driving on the wrong side was surprisingly easy, and thankfully he did not crash into anything, making to the airport safe and sound. He stood by the arrival's gate, holding a piece of paper on which he wrote 'Logan' in large, blocky letters. He felt very foolish in his sweater, next to all the suited chauffeurs carrying printout nametags, but held his ground like any respectable soldier.

A couple people starting trickling out. Some young woman jumped a young man as soon as he came out. A middle-aged man gave the next woman who came out a large bouquet, somewhat embarrassed and awkward. About a dozen other people came and went until somebody who fitted Vina's description came out, eyes scanning the crowd.

_Okay_, John thought, _pink, okay_.

The man—late twenties, same age as Vina, pink hair, in a woolly cardigan with elbow patches, glasses that were so painfully unfashionable that they might be fashion forward, pink hair, a few hairs on his chin where he missed shaving, and did John mention _pink hair_?

To be fair, it was not the shocking hot pink like the pink lady from A Study in Pink, but a rather faded, reddish color, but it was still _pink_ for god's sake. He had not known Vina associated with _artiste_ types like this one here.

The man—Logan, presumably—saw his sign and came over, clearly as confused as John was when Vina called.

"Logan?" he ventured to guess.

"Yes?" he answered questioningly, "Did Vee send you?"

Why did all of her friends call her Vee, John thought irritably. It made him feel so formal and detached to call her Vina, but he couldn't fall into calling her 'Vee' either, the nickname clearly coming from a time when he wasn't in her life. "Yes, Vina couldn't come. Work, you know."

Logan rolled his eyes and grunted, "Of course. This is New York all over again. Well at least I'll be getting a round of free shots tonight." He reached out his hand, "Logan Lansky."

"John Watson," he drew in closer to him and gripped his outstretched hand tightly. He was annoyed to find that he seemed even shorter next to the gangly man. Logan wasn't nearly as tall as Sherlock, but they had the same build that made them appear taller than they were.

The drive back was awkward. John had tried to make small talk—_is this your first time in London? Did you know Vina from school? The weather's just turned nice today_—but Logan only rewarded him with one syllable answers—_no, yes, hm_. Soon even John gave up, and they drove in a thick silence.

"This is Vina's car." suddenly Logan remarked, fingering the pine-shape car freshener that hung from the car ceiling between them.

John was a little startled, to be honest, and he nearly stepped on the gas a bit more than he should have. "Yes, she lent me so that I could pick you up."

Logan turned right to look at him with a sidelong, funny glance. It was a very careful and judging glance. "She let you drive her car?"

"Yes," John didn't like how Logan seemed so surprised by it.

Logan turned forward again, giving a humming mumble, tugging more at the watermelon scented pine-shape.

"Why?" John pressed, unwilling for the silence to return, also curious as to why Logan seemed so baffled.

"She didn't even let me use her laptop back in the day. Got freaked out like a snarling cat whenever I tried to show her anything on YouTube."

Vina did have control problems when it came to other people touching her laptop or other personal electronics, he had noticed. He also thought about how Sherlock took his personal laptop and hacked the passwords within five seconds. Of course, 'getoutyousoddinggit' was not the most secure password. "She still doesn't like people handling her laptop," he offered.

"Yet, car," he deadpanned.

"Yes, well, boyfriends get special privileges."

Logan's head snapped toward him, and John could tell from his peripheral vision that his eyes had grown wide as saucers. "You? She's dating _you_?"

"Yes," now John was really beginning to get irritated by this American.

"Sorry, no offence, just that," Logan paused, "she normally does Asians."

John preferred to not take that comment literally.

"Rich ones," Logan added.

Once John gave up on talking, they immediately fell back into silence, even thicker this time due to that exchange.

John wasn't sure what to do with this man, so he pulled up to his clinic and let both of them out. He sent a quick text to Vina, letting her know that her car was just as flawless as before, and asked how to deal with Logan.

Within half a minute her reply came: 'Please adopt him until 5, will come find you.'

John groaned audibly, and Logan shot him a dirty look.

Great. Logan already didn't like him for some reason, so of course he had to make it worse. Just bloody fantastic.

John put on as believable a smile as he could muster and asked the pink haired man, "Would you like to see the hospital that I work at?"

The man gave him a disinterested shrug, as if to say '_what choice do I have_'?

So for the dull hours of between one and five, John's patient room had an extra piece of furniture. Well, a moving piece of furniture, who wanted to touch everything with a curiosity that went along well with the under-ten-years-of-age patients. They had nothing much to say to one another, and as Logan didn't seem interested in small talk, John was happy to work in relative silence.

Five thirty rolled in as slowly as it always did on Fridays, and it was the ninth time that John was looking at the clock in the last five minutes.

"I thought she said five," Logan finally asked, a deepness to his voice that prevented him from sounding too whiny.

John smiled apologetically, "Well, she's usually very bad with keeping time. Busy."

"And you're okay with that?" Logan asked, head unconsciously to one side. The way he was looking at him, John felt like a Rubik's cube that Logan was itching to manhandle.

"Why shouldn't I be okay," John asked back, "it's not like she's willfully late."

Logan gave a noncommittal hum and went back to his phone.

Another ten minutes later, John's phone buzzed. It was Sherlock, remarking on the dearth of milk in their fridge. Also asking for a whole (and if possible, healthy) liver. As he was sending back a response, his phone buzzed again, and this time it was Vina.

'Terroirs in half', was the succinct message. Not two seconds later, followed by: 'I apologize on Logan's behalf, for whatever he has or hasn't done.'

John chuckled, because what else could he do?

Terroirs was a modest, softly lit tapas bar that was surprisingly not that crowded. They, of course, arrived first, and Logan had already ordered a drink when Vina hurried walk in, her heels clicking with rhythm.

"Vee!" Logan threw himself at her, completely engulfing her and putting too much of his weight on her. Vina stumbled and seemed on the verge of collapsing, but she was laughing.

"You got a _boyfriend_!" he accused the moment they peeled away from each other.

"Why are you surprised, after all the time you've known me?" she said as she sat down and took a look at the menu.

"You didn't say anything!"

"Course not, I didn't want you to scare him away."

"I'm right here," John piped up.

"I would not have! I declare this a state of exception!"

"I thought the fad with Schmitt had passed," she drily remarked.

"Schmitt never passes, we just move around him to either Nietzsche or Strauss—now tell me _everything_."

"I'm right _here_ you know," John offered again, "Hasn't gone away, or disappeared."

"I refuse. You'll just put it for blackmailing later," Vina lifted a hand to flag down a waiter.

"Oh when have I ever successfully blackmailed you?"

"Not for lack of trying, certainly."

"Nor a lack of material: there was frat-boy Finn, academic Alan, tiny Timothy, _Ken_, waspy Wu, lilting Liam, and let's not forget tanned Tan."

Well that was a rather impressive list, John thought, although he was being hypocritical.

"Oh _god_ you _alliterated_!" Vina said in horror.

"In any case, you _have_ to tell me the story, because there _is_ one," Logan said, surreptitiously glancing at John.

John was very, very brassed off now. "Stop this gallivanting right _now_," he growled out, his voice low but cutting through their chatter like a hot knife through flesh. John rarely blew up—at anybody besides Sherlock, in any case—but when he did, he was a scary person, he knew. His stance was straight and soldierly, his gaze steely and commanding, and he wore his captain's title without the actual badge.

Indeed, both of them stopped and stared at him, Logan surprised and Vina just a little turned on.

Immediately, he felt horrified at his outburst, and also regret, because really, hadn't he himself wondered the same thing? A portion of the John Watson who was acutely aware of his height and the wrinkles on his face and maybe the pulling threads in his shirt too—that John Watson could not quite believe that Vina was here for him.

Damn Sherlock and planting ideas into his head.

But once the idea was there, he could not help but notice the little things.

Sherlock did not like Vina, more or less based on the sheer length of time that she has lasted; but Sherlock also tolerated her, because she was the least obtrusive to The Work.

Yet despite Sherlock's grudging allowance, Vina _liked_ Sherlock, in a way that he seldom saw in people. In fact, he rarely saw anything but a deep (and usually deepening) _dis_like. Her fondness of the genius wasn't even the suffering tolerance that Greg exhibited, or a puzzled if amused indifference that Mike took on. No, she was genuinely interested in his opinions and quirks. Her eyes would light up whenever he told her about the cases, and often she tried her hand at deduction (although she was really piss poor at it). There was this one case where a woman came to them, claiming to hear the footsteps of her dead husband in between the walls at night—and Vina insisted on visiting the site. They had sat in the hall at night, silently waiting, and the moment clear, heavy footsteps came from the walls, Vina clutched his arm with great, trembling force, but her eyes were wide not with just fear (although there was plenty of that, Sherlock scoffed later), but also a pure excitement. (She even laughed a little, with a graceful self-deprecation, later, when Sherlock scoffed.)

He hadn't introduced her formally to Greg yet, but there was a time when her boss left unexpectedly early, and she surprised him at the crime scene. She made friends with Anderson—or as much as anybody could make friends with the miserable, grouchy man—and gave a fake little laugh at his joke. John had felt just a little annoyed at her for it, but then at dinner she made a scathing remark about Anderson's lack of intelligence and envy of Sherlock, a proud edge to her condescension that John hummed in resonance with.

And there was a day when they ran into Harry on the street—at Selfridges of all places, but thankfully Harry didn't buy anything she couldn't afford there. Harry had made some offhand and inappropriate remark about his relationship with Sherlock ('he's always been commitment-phobic, like all men, except to the man that he lives with; this is why I'm a lesbian'). Vina had laughed, and he could tell it was a genuine one, full of amused surprise. That was fine—it was fantastic that she wasn't offended by his batshite-insane sister—but well, oughtn't she be just a _little_ peeved that he was so close to Sherlock?

In any case, he flagged down their waiter again and they placed their order with a tense brevity.

The arrival of the charcuterie platter saved the atmosphere (there was little that could occupy Vina's mind when she was eating speck), and the tapas plates came quickly enough that there was not much room for idle discussion. The cod—John refused to even think of the French names—was good, and Logan stuffed his big mouth with black pudding, while Vina chomped down on the pork chop and pig's head.

Afterwards, they polished off a bottle of amontillado sherry, Vina and Logan engaged feverishly in some talk about Edgar Allen Poe, and the conversation ceased to make sense to John.

Vina did not invite him to her home that night, instead kissing him tenderly when she dropped him off.

In fact, the kiss was so tender and placating that John spent the better half of the night turning in his own bed (to the background music of Paganini's Cantabile 17).

At turning point of this day to the next, he gave up and took out his phone, pounding the keyboard vehemently.

In fifteen minutes, he was at Vina's.

Logan was snoring steadily in the living room, on the large, moss-colored sofa that he had helped Vina pick up. The sound rumbled through the flat and John wondered if everybody had _some_ sort of background music, and if he should be grateful that his was a masterful violin.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, and Vina was looking at him in confusion.

In a spinning moment of self-doubt, he asked her, "Are you with me to be close to Sherlock?"

She seemed taken back—he couldn't tell if it was a good taken back or a bad kind. But quickly she overcame herself and started chuckling. "What gave you that idea?"

Sherlock, of course, who amplified all his insecurities. "Just a floating thought," he gave vaguely, "It's apparent that you're very drawn towards him though."

She looked at him as if she thought he was feverish, before responding very reasonably, "Well he's an attractive figure, I suppose, but no, not really. I mean, have you _talked_ to the guy?" Then she laughed, because of course he of all people knew how hard it was to get along with Sherlock. If it could even be called 'getting along'.

"It's just that, well, you seem to be very interested in what he does," John replied as offhandedly as he could.

"Oh I am, but it's also what you do, no?"

John shrugged. It was, but it was also undeniable that Sherlock was the heart of the matter.

"What's wrong with me taking an interest in what you do then?" she asked.

He thought she might have been teasing, because this was _exactly_ what was wrong—that he was scared she was more interested in what he did than _him_. But that sounded like a pathetic high-schooler even in his head, so John wisely said instead, "You'd known him before you met me." It wasn't a question.

She shrugged now, "I'd seen his name in the papers, but I don't read the headlines not pertinent to finance. Besides, I recognized _you_, when we first met."

Ah, the mystery of the young, successful woman checking him out in a bar.

When it became clear to her that he was waiting for an elaboration, she continued. "We were in a bake-off for a newspaper company. I started picking up a copy of this company's paper, just to make my Managing Director's life easier. It happened, on that particular day, that your case made the headlines, the journalist featured a quick profile for you two, and most importantly, my MD's phone conference dragged out a whole half hour longer than anticipated. These circumstances led to me idly typing .uk into my phone's browser, as I was waiting for the other page to load (about faking my useragent to throw cyber data off, in an absolutely inconsequential rebellion against Apple, which I love with all my materialistic heart). Your blog (probably due to lower traffic) came up quickly, and so I looked at your profile picture and had even read half of the Speckled Blonde entry before I was called into my boss's decidedly more spacious office. That night, we were in the pub, and I recognized your face"

When coincidences aligned themselves in such a manner, it hardly seemed out of place to give in to a fatalistic urge and call it the will of the universe—or at least London. It seemed like London, with a great, murky mind, had designed for them to meet.

It was a believable story, and John was willing to rest the case for now, when Vina interrupted him. "I wouldn't like Sherlock, John. I'm not Molly. She's an altogether very hopeful sort of person, but I learned too young that contented heroines are not feminist, and that happy endings are not literature. That god is dead and we have to become gods in order to cleanse our murder of him. That the dog Fido, lost in the first chapter, fails to turn up happily barking in the last. That eggs are feminine fertility and whenever I eat one I am devouring myself. That good men are hard to find. That being skinny is no longer what other people want out of me, but what I want for myself, and nothing will taste as good as being thin. That death knows no forgiveness, and sometimes suicide is an act that is unconditionally beautiful. That hell is other people and also because I believe I am in hell. That Greece is just a dirty shithole and not the shimmering thrones of Aphrodite. That even my most vivid experiences will be transient, and the rest of my life will be forever trying to recreate that. That high school never ends. That love is chemical. That everybody lies. That real life picks up where the Jane Austen novel ends. That the rich is miserable, but it is better to be rich and miserable than poor and miserable."

At some point, she had come closer and looped her arms around his waist. John had been distracted by the bombardment of cultural allusions in her little tirade, and was anxious that he was missing the point in there somewhere. But he couldn't deny that it felt intimate, like a confession, and it made him immediately feel like he understood Vina, and in return she understood him.

And so what else was left, when that was established, but to love each other?

* * *

Author's Note: Once work starts, it's so hard to find time to sit down and write. It's all I can do to drag myself home at 2am everyday.

Well in any case, hope you enjoyed the slow exploration of their relationship!


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